I'm not sure why we should be shocked when someone ends a marriage and comes out of the closet. A quick browse on the internet will reveal plenty of websites with names such as My Husband Is Gay and Gay Husbands/Straight Wives, with checklists for worried wives. The top warning signs? Possession of homosexual pornography and evidence of visits to homosexual porn websites. (You would not think a lot of men, confronted with a log of their hours spent on sexynakedmen.com, succeed in convincing their wives that this is a common, heterosexual male way to spend an after­noon, but apparently they do.) There aren't as many websites for men left by gay wives. Perhaps they aren't as ready to share their hurt. Perhaps it's their wounded pride. Whatever the reason, it's certainly not because it's not happening.

But why should we have such illusions about marriage anyway? There are many things spouses choose to keep secret, and homosexuality is just one of them. No man says: I do, mostly because your money will allow me to become a successful businessman. No woman says: I want to have children soon and I am too conventional/cautious/career-oriented to do it by myself. Weekly sex will be OK, as long as passion is not required.

There are three powerful bonds between people and, for better and for worse, they often operate separately, rather than together: sexual attraction, long-term attachment and romantic yearning. Sexual attraction can bring together two people who have almost nothing in common except what takes place between the sheets; see most young marriages. Then there are people whom you just love – deeply, permanently and not necessarily sexually. These people are described as your best friend and you would willingly raise their kids and, if you had to, give them a kidney. (A lot of gay men who marry women feel this way towards their wives; there may be a lot of women who wouldn't mind a husband like that, espec­i­ally if they knew – before the wedding – that there wouldn't be much sex.) There is also the bond of romantic attachment; these are people with whom all the accoutrements of romance feel so right: the cosy table in the corner, the sweet text message as you sit through a dull meeting.

This is a lovely bond between people; it doesn't require sexual attraction and it neither precludes nor requires long-term attachment. I have two gay men in my life with official titles. My Gay Husband: a distinguished gentleman, a little older than me and capable of not only making me laugh myself sick, but also of helping me choose a dress and fix a paragraph. On a few occasions, he has acted the part of my husband so convincingly, we were both a little surprised. I also have a Gay Boyfriend: handsome, charming, brilliant on my hair colour and my essays, a little younger than me. We have walked through a lot of places hand-in-hand and happily. I can imagine that a woman might want to marry either of these men.

It's the world we live in that makes it hard for gay men and women to face their homosexuality and to hope that, in marrying their best friend, they have vanquished their other desires. (In an ideal world, it shouldn't be hard to give ­prospective husbands and wives heads up about ourselves. When I started dating again after the end of my first marriage, the person sitting across the table from me always knew – Jew, writer, bisexual, near-sighted mother of three – by the second date.) In our modern silliness, boxing, rugby-playing, good-with-a-hammer guys have to hide their gayness; women have to conform to a certain myster­ious ideal that allows them to succeed, but not with­out some required simpering. We want our daughters to be comfortable with themselves, their intelli­g­ence and their bodies, but not so comfortable that no boy asks them out on a date. We want sons who are kind and honourable, but not so much so that they'll be mocked. We're not ready for the bouquet of humanity – for now, we can stand only two dismal flowers: one blue, one pink.

• Where The God Of Love Hangs Out, by Amy Bloom, is published by Granta, priced £10.99.

Rebecca Jayne, 38, ­realised that she was gay after her second ­marriage ended

‘I’ve never had a type of man – because I didn’t fancy any.' Photograph: Steve Schofield

I got married young, at 20, to a friend, because that's what everyone did. I knew I wasn't attract­ed to him, but I thought it was normal not to feel anything. I remem­ber walking down the aisle thinking, it's OK, I can always get a divorce.

I think deep down I realised I was gay when I was about six. I had very close friendships with girls and it never entered my head to want a relationship with a man – I thought it was because my parents' relation­ship wasn't very good. As a teenager, boys approached me and I'd think, go on then. It wasn't something I was into at all, but I didn't know there was any other option. I grew up in rural Wales. I didn't know anyone who was gay. I thought you had to have a skinhead and dungarees.

Then I went to university and there was a massive gay population, but it freaked the life out of me. London was a mad place and I didn't know what to do with myself. I didn't stay there very long. Instead, I got married and moved to Cornwall.

At first, it was the ideal relation­ship. He was in the navy, so away all the time. We had a baby, but things soon turned volatile. I think we both knew something wasn't right.

We split up after five years and a few months later I got together with another good friend, back in Wales. My parents had split up and I didn't want to be a single mum. I wanted my son to have brothers and sisters. When I married my second husband, it was because I knew he'd be a good dad. I wasn't looking for a soul mate, but we were friends and companions. And we still are.

We had two children together, and they were five and seven when we got divorced. It was a shock to my husband, that it wasn't enough for me. I couldn't give him a reason, I just knew it wasn't right.

I started having counselling and it was then that I finally faced up to who I was – what I was. Suddenly, everything fell into place. I kept thinking, oh my God, I'm a lesbian. That's why I've never had any interest in men, never had a type – because I didn't fancy any of them.

It was six months before I told anyone else. I didn't want to lose my friends. I felt massive guilt about the children. There's this torment inside you: do you actually value what you feel enough to put everything on the line? My self-esteem was very low. For so many years, I'd just gone along with what everyone else wanted.

I came out to a few close friends first, then my oldest son, who was 15 at the time. I wanted to make sure the kids were OK with it. But he was fantastic. Then I told the younger two, who were 11 and nine. They were more confused and upset. They were worried about how it would affect them: what will my friends think? What if I get bullied? I don't want two mums, that's weird. But the oldest went into school wearing a T-shirt that said, "Some people are gay, get over it." And because he was so supportive, and all his friends were cool with it, they saw it would be OK.

I had a couple of flings with women, which the children didn't know about, but I waited until the younger two were comfortable before I brought my current partner home. They thought she was great straight off, but they haven't told their friends what our relationship is, and though she has moved in and we are engaged, we're careful not to act like a couple in public, for their sake.

I'm not in touch with my first husband, but when I told my second, I was worried he'd think it was a slur on his manhood, or that I'd lied to him. In fact I think it was a relief. He said it answered a lot of questions.

The most important thing was the children. For a while, I was concerned my daughter might think she has to be a lesbian, because I am. Or that I fancy her, which is ridiculous because I don't fancy my sons, but people think that kind of thing. But recently she said, "I'm so pleased you're gay, Mum, because you're much happier than you've ever been." It's true. When I got together with my partner, it felt like I'd come home. It just felt right. I'm finally being who I want to be.

Dean, 34, came out to his wife after nine years together

The crisis point came four years ago, when my wife and I both went away for work. Back home she said, "Have you missed me?" I thought, "No, not at all." I'd just turned 30, and it hit me that I'd been living a lie for years.

I'd always thought I was bisexual. I'd had a few flings with other boys, but I just wanted to conform. I met my wife at 20 and we got married when I was 23. We were together for nine years and I was always faithful, but on holiday on a beach, I'd eye up men from behind my sunglasses.

When I told my wife I thought I was gay, she wouldn't believe it. She suggested having an open marriage – I think she just wanted to keep the relationship going.

After I left, I went off the rails; I lost my company, house, car. I moved to London, went out on the gay scene. I spent my early 30s doing things I should have done a decade earlier.

I'm not in touch with my ex-wife now. She told my grandparents I was gay, and that meant I had to tell my whole family. My parents have been quite good about it. I still speak to them. My sister's reaction was, "I could have told you that years ago!"

I distanced myself from people in my 20s because I couldn't cope. But I'm more honest now. I'd like to have a relation­ship – I'm always hoping the next one will be Mr Right.

David and Julie, both 24, had been together for four years when he told her he was gay

‘The number of times he watched High School Musical should have been a sign.’ Photograph: Martin Hunter

David We met at university, and saw each other every day for four years. I became part of her family. I think we all thought we would be together for ever.

I'd had thoughts about men when I was younger, but I'd found them easy to ignore. Then we made a new friend and I felt overwhelmed by feelings for him. I realised I had to get out of the relationship, so I started pushing Julie away. It was painful because we were so close – I still love her – but eventually we split up.

Then I got really depressed. I had left university and was working by that point, but I could hardly function. I was having suicidal thoughts, I didn't want to speak to anyone. Eventually I rang a counselling helpline and said that I was gay out loud for the first time.

I was terrified that if Julie found out, it would destroy her somehow – that she'd never be able to trust a man again. But one day, on the train back from a meeting in London, Julie's mum called me and it all came out. I found myself hysterical, saying, "I don't understand why you're being so kind." Julie and I had a long, emotional conversation the next day. She was surprised and upset, but she said she still loved me, and was proud of me.

That was almost a year ago. I have not had a relationship since, but I have seen a couple of men, and Julie and I are still really good friends. My perspective on life has completely changed. It's not that I've become hedonistic now, but I appreciate the joy of living. I realise now that every day counts.

Julie David and I were very happy together. I felt so lucky to have met someone who was my best friend, who I fancied and who fancied me. We were very passionate about each other. He was thoughtful and romantic, and I really did think that we had a future together – we had even picked out children's names.

Then he stopped being as affection­ate, stopped making romantic gestures. I thought he was just stressed, or depressed, so I stuck it out for a long time, hoping we could find a way back. It was very strange because I knew how much he loved me, but he kept distancing himself from me.

It's not as though him being gay never crossed my mind. The fact that he was so sensitive, had lots of female friends and was into the same TV shows and music as me – all the things that made us fit together so well – raised doubts in my mind. He wasn't exactly a manly man. But I knew how much he loved and fancied me, so it was a genuine shock when my mum rang to say he'd come out.

I cried for a long time – but then I found myself laughing. Everything was falling into place. It made total sense of his behaviour and I just felt terrible for him, that he had lived with this and felt he couldn't tell me.

The next day we talked about every­thing: when he'd realised he was gay, who he was attracted to. We even joked about him fancying Zac Efron, and the number of times he'd made me watch High School Musical – perhaps that should have been a sign!

Afterwards, I felt relieved. I was angry he'd put me through all that heartache, but I understood why he didn't tell me sooner. The last year of our relation­ship, hard as it was, gave us time to come to terms with it.

I'm now in a very happy relationship. It's only been a year since David came out, so there are still some raw emotions, but it's always hard to completely give your love and trust to someone.

Recently I heard [rugby player] Gareth Thomas's ex talking about how she felt when he came out and I found myself crying. I could identify with everything she said and it was wonderful that she was so open.

David is one of my best friends. We've been through so much together and care so much about one another that we know we will always be there for each other. And at least I won't have to get jealous about him dating another girl.Both names have been changed.

Jane, 55, has been married to her husband for 30 years but has relationships with other women

I realised I was attracted to women at 16. I had a few crushes on other girls, but I always knew I wanted to have a family and a "normal" life. In my early 20s I had a relation­ship with a girl, but in the late 70s, even in a liberal household, it just wasn't something anybody talked about.

Then I met my husband, in my early 20s. I thought he would make a wonderful husband and father, and that has proved absolutely true. We're still together 30 years later.

I told him I'd had this relationship with a girl, and for 15 years I did nothing about those feelings. But they became harder to suppress, like a jack-in-the-box I had to keep slam­ming the lid on. Eventually I told my husband and he was very generous about it and said, well, if that's what you need to find out, go ahead.

Our children were eight and 10, and I was in my late 30s. I answered an ad in Time Out, saying I was married, with children, and had no intention of leaving my husband.

It was difficult to have a relation­ship. It was hard to find time, and I can't say it didn't produce tensions with my husband. I think he was afraid I'd leave him, but he knew it was something I needed to do. We didn't discuss details; he just gave me the space I needed.

That relationship became too complicated and I had to end it. A few months later I started another, with a friend who was also married; it lasted a year. Since then I've had two flings, but nothing for eight years.

I prefer women's bodies; it's as simple as that. But I don't think life is all about sex. It's wonderful when it happens, but it's not enough to give up the life I've got. I have a very good relation­ship with my husband. I wouldn't say the sex is great, because my heart isn't in it – actually, when I've been involved with a woman, the sex with him has been better – but when you weigh it up against everything else… We're great friends and we love each other.

I feel we have a responsibility to our children as well. They're grown up and have left home, but I think it's unsettling when parents get divorced at any stage. One of my daughters is also gay, and when she was about 18 and questioning her own sexuality, I told her about my experiences. I thought it would help, but I regretted it afterwards because she was quite upset and shocked.

I don't know if I'm bisexual, or gay, or what. If anything ever happened to my husband, I couldn't imagine being with another man. I'd probably end up with another woman. I don't rule out having another relationship at some point in the future. I'm not going to go out looking for it, but if it presents itself, I will be open to it.Jane's name has been changed.

Rosie Johnson, 31, was 11 when her parents separated. They have both since come out

My parents separated, and my mother's partner moved in when I was 11. I remember the exact date my parents told me: it was the only year I kept a diary, and there's a big, black scribble on 11 February. They sat me and my brothers down in the morning, before school, and said, "We're going to split up." This was a surprise but, from my point of view, not a disaster. I loved Judy Blume and Paula Danziger books, which were full of heroines going through a family break-up. Having no idea of the reality, I secretly thought it might be quite exciting to have divorced parents. "We might have to move to Bristol," they said. This was not good. "Dad's going to move out, and Sue is going to move in to help out," they said. Sue had been our lodger in our old house, so this bit of news didn't really register. I didn't care. As long as I didn't have to move to Bristol.

In the end, Dad got a new house, five minutes' walk away, and my brothers and I spent half the week with him, and half the week with Mum and Sue. I don't remember there being a moment when I thought, "Aha, Mum and Sue are girlfriends." They were friends with other lesbian couples, some of whom had children, so perhaps it didn't seem that unusual. We kids were more interested in our own lives than what the adults were up to.

For me, the real worry was what other people were thinking. Only one girl ever asked me outright. "My mum says your mum's a lesbian," she said. I went red. "Your mum's wrong," I replied. "So why are there only three bedrooms in your house?" she asked, with a predatory smile. I think I made some excuse about not being able to afford a bigger house, and someone sleeping on the sofa, fooling no one. After that, I was always aware of a need to defend my family.

Things became much easier when I moved to a big sixth-form college, then on to university. Then, in my third year, my dad called me a couple of days before I was due to visit him. "Are you sitting down?" he said.

"Why?"

"How would you feel about having two gay parents?"

My response was along the lines of, "Don't be ridiculous." Dad explained that he'd met someone called Richard, who was a writer, and very nice, and I'd meet him on Sunday. It took the best part of a bottle of vodka that evening to get me over my initial disbelief. I had always assumed he'd been single because he had never met the right woman.

I was happy for him, but he went from being the dad I'd grown up with to someone with a whole new dimension to his life, that I wasn't really party to. It felt surreal, more than anything. I was full of questions – but not as many as some of my well-meaning university friends. "So does that mean they never loved each other?" one friend asked. "Are you like a freak of nature or something?"

I didn't know what I was, but it genuinely never crossed my mind to ask either of my parents whether they had ever been in love. I was just certain of it, as certain as I was that I had always been straight (another question I began to get asked with disheartening regularity). It's possible that, had my mother fallen in love with another man, I'd have more questions about my parents' marriage. Falling in love with another woman does tend to make people focus on sexuality and gender, rather than the individual personalities of the people involved (I know it's not as simple as that, but if you're looking for a convenient way to explain it, it helps).

In my case, there's one definite advantage to having gay parents (apart from giving me an ace card in conversations with strangers). Sue was never a stepmother to any of us kids in the traditional sense, but she has been a strong and supportive presence for almost my entire life. The day before my wedding, she was in the kitchen making canapés for almost 15 hours straight, and announced at 1am that she'd had the most marvellous day – completely typical. I suspect she has no idea how much we love her.

I could see now that mum being gay had never been a shock because all three of them mum, dad, Sue had tried so hard to make things normal for us. In retrospect perhaps we should have discussed things more but then it would have emphasised our differences to other families.

• For more information on the issues raised in this article, contact Stonewall.